by Mary Stone
No, that was ridiculous.
She needed to get her thoughts under control if she wanted any chance to figure out where she actually was.
Eyes closed, she relaxed her shoulders, inhaled, and counted to eight. Clenching and unclenching her hands, she exhaled and repeated the process. Eight in, four out. Eight in, four out.
The icy tinge of adrenaline and fear still chilled her, and her palms were still clammy, but the swirling vortex of farfetched scenarios had calmed enough to allow room for rational thought.
Before she started to walk back through her most recent memories, her breath caught in her throat.
There was someone else in the room with her.
She had been unable to hear their breathing over the rush of her pulse, and even now, she had to strain her ears to make out the sound.
“Hello?” she managed through chattering teeth. The word was little more than a squeak. “I-is someone there?”
No matter how diligently she tuned in to the still world around her, the silence was deafening. There was only more of the quiet, ragged breathing accompanied by an occasional gurgle that wasn’t natural.
Natalie had never been an expert in the health field, but even she could tell that the person at the other end of the room was in bad shape.
“Can you hear me?” she asked.
A low moan was her only response.
How had it come to this?
As hard as she tried, she couldn’t remember a single event after the plate had slipped out of her grasp. Without a doubt, the sting she’d felt in her neck had to do with the inky darkness by which she was now surrounded.
But why? And better yet, where? Who? What in the hell was going on?
As if on cue, a muffled thud sounded out in the distance. The slat of light that pierced through the gaps in the doorframe seemed as bright as an overhead fixture. The door eased open with a rusty creak, and she thought she might have been witness to the explosive death of a star.
Tears rolled down her cheeks from the sudden sting of the light. She used her free hand to block out a portion of the glow as the sound of footsteps grew nearer. Through her eyelids, the illumination changed again as the visitor flicked a switch to bathe them in light.
The light was like razor blades slicing through her pupils.
She was desperate to see this person, to learn who they were and make sense of this musty room, but she hadn’t had a chance to let her sensitive eyes adjust before the man spoke.
“You are awake.”
The simple observation was tinged with a heavy accent. Russian? She didn’t know anyone who spoke with a Russian accent. None that she could think of.
Desperate to clear her vision, she blinked rapidly as she squinted up at the man. His face was rugged with a five o’clock shadow that darkened his cheeks. His close-cropped hair was styled, and with the leather jacket, button-down shirt, and dark wash jeans, he looked like he might have just come from a nightclub.
“Who are you?” Natalie was ashamed at how weak her voice sounded. How stricken. She blinked a few more times before she could stand to meet his gaze as she swallowed in an effort to work up enough saliva to speak clearly.
“You can call me Alek.”
Before she could think of another question, she caught the first glimpse of the other prisoner.
Crimson smeared the dingy floor, and more had spattered against the wall. Like Natalie, one of the man’s wrists was handcuffed to a metal pole that extended from the floor to the ceiling. The sickly overhead light caught the shiny spots of fresh blood along his arms and his stomach. As her gaze finally settled on her husband’s face, a startled cry burst from her throat.
“No…” Horror and grief gripped at her chest as tears burned their way into her eyes. “No, Jon, no.”
Anxiety closed around her heart and pressed on her lungs as she tried to take in a breath of air, but it felt like someone might have been sitting on her chest. She glanced to the silver handcuffs that bound her wrist to a rust-specked radiator. If she had taken a second to consider the bind, she would have known she couldn’t break free. The radiator might have been in sorry shape, but it was sturdy.
But as time slowed to a crawl, she knew one thing for sure…she had to try to get to her husband. Wheezing for breath, she jerked her arm forward. The metal bit into her already abraded wrist as she strained against the shackle.
The pain was excruciating.
Like a thousand needles scraping already raw nerves, she sobbed when the first drop of blood appeared. Gritting her teeth, she tried harder.
“You can do this,” she whispered to herself.
She bit back a scream when the man laughed at her efforts.
No, she couldn’t displace the heavy radiator, but she had a petite frame like her mother. Maybe she could pull her wrist through the handcuff, especially with the blood to lubricate the way. As she tucked her thumb beneath her palm and flattened her fingers, another low chuckle froze her in place.
“Those are small handcuffs.” His accent was thicker now. “Same handcuffs your American police use for, how do you say? Juveniles.”
With a fervent headshake, she snapped her attention back to the well-dressed Russian. “That’s not…” She paused. She was out of breath, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fill her lungs with precious air. “You…you can’t do this.” As much as she wanted to scream at the man, her voice was little more than a hoarse croak.
Her struggle clearly amused him.
“I can.” Scratching the side of his face, he glanced back to the still form and shrugged. “Your husband, Jon, yes?”
“Why are you doing this?” The question was hardly a whisper, and she doubted the man even heard her.
If he had, he didn’t react.
“He is shot. In his stomach.” His conversational manner made her want to scream. “Most people do not survive injuries such as this unless they are transported to a hospital right away. You are aware of this, yes?”
“I don’t understand.” She wanted to demand answers from him, but all she could manage were dumbfounded statements of shock.
“Let me simplify. He is dying. Slowly. And by morning, he will be past saving.”
A sob burst from her lips. “Why?”
Again, he ignored her. “Of course, he was never meant to survive. Jonathan Falkner is nothing more than the message.”
“What?” She opened and closed her mouth several times before she could form another coherent remark. “Message? What message? Who are you? What do you want from us?” She was babbling now, but she couldn’t make herself stop, her volume rising as her panic grew. “Please, just tell me! Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you. Anything. Just get him, please, get him to a hospital!”
The Russian had started to shake his head before she even finished, the evil smile still playing on his lips. “No. We want nothing from you, Natalie. Your father is, how you say, a different story. He owes me and my people.”
“My father?” she echoed, the word reflecting just how incredulous she was. “What could you possibly want from him? He’s an airline pilot!”
“Eric Dalton.” Only the brief flare of his nostrils betrayed his annoyance. “That is your father, yes?”
She could only gape at him.
Eric Dalton was a commercial airline pilot, not a criminal. He was a family man. A good man. In fact, he’d done nothing but take excellent care of Natalie’s mother as she recovered from a traumatic car accident. What could this Alek person want from him?
Did he mean her brother? Ethan was still in college. To her knowledge, neither he nor any member of her family had any history with the…damn…whoever this man’s “people” were. A gang? The mafia?
She shook her head. Surely not. She must have indeed watched too many movies.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. Think. What did she know so far?
She knew that her captor was Russian, or from a country with a very si
milar accent. Thinking hard, Natalie wondered if his country of origin had anything to do with this? Earlier that year, Natalie had purchased a kit to trace the genetics of her ancestry. There was Dutch, Polish, Scandinavian, but no Russian, so she didn’t think that could be a connection.
Was this about money? Her family had always been financially comfortable. The combined incomes of her mother and father put them solidly in the upper-middle class, and even when her father was furloughed on a couple occasions in the past, they held their finances together. What could any of them possibly owe to someone like this man?
“You have the wrong person,” she finally managed. “This isn’t right. Please, you’ve got the wrong person. Just let me go, and I swear, I won’t say anything. Just, just let me take Jon to a hospital. I’ll say we were mugged, that we didn’t see who did it. I’m not the person you want, okay? But if you just let us go, we can pretend like none of this happened.”
With the same unsettling chuckle, he shook his head. “No, we have the right person. You are Natalie Falkner, and your husband is Jonathan Falkner.”
“There must be others with the same name,” she wheezed. Her parents were as straitlaced as they came, and her brother had graduated high school at the top of his class. Ethan was a quiet, thoughtful young man, and there was no way in hell he’d be mixed up with any of this.
But she had a half-brother too. She had only met him on a handful of occasions, but she knew he was in law enforcement. No. Not just law enforcement. Noah Dalton was a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“You don’t want my father.” Her voice was stronger now. Panicked. Too loud. She didn’t care. “You have to have him confused with someone else. With…with Noah Dalton. My father’s a pilot. Please, you’ve got the wrong person. You want Noah, my half-brother. I-I can help you, just, please. Help him.” With a pleading look, she tilted her chin toward Jon’s still form.
Another chuckle. The sound was devoid of mirth, and his smirk was as chilling an expression as she had ever seen. “I do not make mistakes, and you are already helping me. See him?” Brows raised, the Russian extended a hand to point at Jon. “He is the message. And you, Natalie, you are…how do you say it?” He paused to snap his fingers, but she could tell it was just an act. “Collateral. You are collateral.”
“Collateral?” The word felt almost foreign on her tongue. “What does that mean? Collateral for what? What are you talking about? You want Noah, not me, not my father. Not Jon!”
Some of the grim amusement vanished from his eyes as he lowered his arm. “No. Eric Dalton has seven days to keep his word, or you will die just as your husband will die. We shall discover during that time how much your father loves you, yes?”
The rusted, metal door at his back was latched closed to block both sight and sound from the world beyond, but she was out of options.
“Help!” she yelled, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Please, someone, help! My husband has been shot!”
With a groan, the Russian rolled his eyes and reached into his jacket. The polished steel of the handgun glinted in the eerie light, but he held the weapon by the barrel as he approached.
Fear became a living thing that crept over her like a hungry beast. “No, please, no!”
The pleas fell on deaf ears.
He didn’t bother to reply before he snapped his arm forward to smash the grip of the weapon into her temple. A burst of white light flooded her periphery, and then the world was still.
2
Though Winter Black only heard half the conversation, she could tell that Noah’s late-night phone call was more than some random drunk dial. What time was it anyway?
As she watched her friend and fellow FBI partner, Noah Dalton, pace his apartment, his body language was as tense as she’d ever seen it. When he practically growled at whoever had called, she glanced down to her phone and pushed herself to sit.
She could scarcely believe the text notification on her screen. The IT department at the Federal Bureau of Investigation had sent her a message:
Email location confirmed. Origination: Harrisonburg, Virginia
Her heart hammered in her chest as she read the message a second time. Could it be true?
The Federal Bureau of Investigation’s computer gurus were letting her know that the email she’d received at the end of the Schmidt investigation a few weeks ago—the email from her baby brother—had been sent from her hometown. The same town where her parents had been brutally murdered, and the same town where her little brother had been taken from their family home in the middle of the night. Taken by Douglas Kilroy, The Preacher. The same man who had butchered her parents in their bed had stolen away with six-year-old Justin Black in the middle of that horrific night.
Then, out of the blue, she’d received an email that read simply, “Hey, sis. Heard you’ve been looking for me.”
Now that she had learned the location of the email’s origin, there was no doubt in her mind. The message had been sent by Justin. To Winter, there could be no alternative explanation.
“What do you mean?” Noah’s voice jerked her out of the grim reverie. He had paused in the middle of his pacing, and the flickering light of the television caught the silver band of his watch as he rubbed his eyes with his free hand.
A tinny voice responded to the inquiry, but try as she might, Winter couldn’t make out the words. She tucked her knees up to her chest and leaned back against the couch. She could only hope that the call was unimportant and that Noah’s mounting frustration was just the result of being roused from sleep at such a late hour.
As she reluctantly locked the screen of her phone, she kept her vacant stare on the coffee table.
She didn’t need to be nosy, she reminded herself. If the call was important, Noah would give her a rundown of the conversation when it was over. Forcing her attention back to the television, she combed the fingers of one hand through her disheveled hair.
For some reason, the feel of the long strands made her think of her friend, Dr. Autumn Trent, whose deep shade of auburn was a stark contrast to Winter’s black locks.
Autumn had recently gained her doctoral degree in forensic psychology and had helped them solve their last case.
What advice would Autumn give her now? Winter wondered. Would she agree that the email must have come from Justin? Or would she think that Winter was reaching for the conclusion her heart wanted most?
Except, Winter didn’t actually know what her heart wanted when it came to her little brother.
More than anything, she wanted to find him alive and happy, but in the secret recesses of her heart, she worried about what she would actually find.
The boy would have been raised by a monster, after all. Some psychopaths were born, but some were made.
Was that her brother?
Winter closed her eyes, trying not to imagine how the past thirteen years of his life had been. Had Justin witnessed other atrocious acts that the FBI knew nothing about? Other murders where The Preacher didn’t leave his signature so the boy could learn? Or participate? Had he sat on Douglas Kilroy’s knee, listening with rapt attention about how the world was filled with sinners, and how it was Justin’s duty to eliminate them all from this earth?
The thought made Winter shiver, and she opened her eyes when Noah spat, “I’m shocked,” the words dripping with a biting sarcasm she didn’t often witness in him.
As Winter’s attention shifted from thoughts of her brother to Noah, she let out a long breath. Whatever happened or didn’t happen in her search for Justin, she had friends. She was no longer alone.
“Fine,” Noah growled. “Text me the flight information, and I’ll pick you up from the airport.”
As intent as she had been to not listen in on his call, the statements had her ears perking up. Who was Noah talking to? What was making him so unhappy?
A few seconds later, Noah tossed his phone onto the couch but continued to pace.
Winter
cleared her throat. “You okay?” She made sure to keep her tone gentle. She might not have paid attention to the full extent of his conversation, but she could tell when Noah was agitated.
The shadows moved along his face as he clenched his jaw and shook his head. “I’m not really sure.”
So many thoughts whipped through her mind, she had a difficult time picking one on which she wanted to focus.
She wanted to ask him about how or why she had fallen asleep at his side for the second time, and she wanted to know what the sleeping situation meant for the future of their friendship. At the same time, she felt as though she needed to tell him what the IT department had just confirmed about Justin’s email.
But when he dropped his hand back down to his side, she saw a glint in his eyes that she could only describe as a cross between irritation and melancholy.
She swallowed the trepidation about their relationship and about Justin’s email as she straightened in her seat.
“Who was it?” Though her voice was quiet, the words cut through the still air like a gunshot.
Heaving another sigh, Noah flopped back onto the couch. He slowly shook his head. “I don’t really know what to call him.”
Winter turned to face him more fully. “What?”
Well, that ruled out Max or anyone else at the bureau.
With one hand, he rubbed his eyes. “Nothing,” he muttered. “It’s all right. It’s not work, at least not technically. I can tell you about it tomorrow. You should head home and get some sleep.”
Winter bit her tongue to keep her exasperated sigh at bay. “I guess I’m getting a taste of my own medicine, aren’t I?”
His green eyes flicked to her as he flashed her a puzzled look. “Huh?”
“It’s pretty obvious it’s not ‘all right,’ and if you think I can just go home and fall asleep after this, you’ve lost your damn mind. You remember when I used to do that to you, right? Keep all that shit to myself and bottle it up until it made my head explode?” She didn’t pause to consider the irony of those words.